Authors: Elizabeth Goddard and Lynette Sowell
He continued on his way to town, with James ambling along, trusty and true. The critter was unpredictable, but Zeb understood his animal’s moods and ways, so the occasional stubborn streak and balking was easily dealt with.
On a fine afternoon like today, it seemed like everyone in Jackson’s Hole had descended on the town to do business, catch up on news, and interact with fellow humans until the next patch of weather came through.
“Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat,” someone was singing as Zeb stepped into the general store to pick up his post.
“Gus, we don’t have any geese.” Zeb nodded to the older man playing checkers by the woodstove. “And if we did, they might be getting a bit skinny by now.”
“Oh, you spoilsport.” Gus Tolliver glanced across the board at his opponent, Bud Leach, another old-timer come to town, likely for human interaction as well. “Right, Bud?”
“I’m not getting in the middle of a poultry controversy. I’ll eat either one, skinny goose or fat.” The man stroked his gray handlebar mustache. He reached for a checker and skipped two of Gus’s. “Ha. Take that.”
“You win.” Gus shook his head then stood and stretched. He glanced toward Zeb, who continued on his way to the counter.
Zeb inquired about any post that had come for him, but nothing. He turned and nearly ran smack into Gus.
“Mr. Tolliver.”
“Mr. Covington.” The older man studied his face. “You look like a man who’s highly conflicted.”
“I’m not sure, sir. Thought a ride to town and back would help. Better than staying cooped up at home. Not as though there’s nothing to do.” Zeb shrugged.
“I understand, Zebulon, I understand. Care to step outside and talk about it?”
“I’m not sure it would help much, sir. I’ve prayed about the matter, yes, but there seems to be no ready answer.”
Gus clapped him on the back. “Ah, often the ready answer isn’t the easy answer, or the comfortable answer.”
Zeb wasn’t about to debate that idea with the man. “No, I guess sometimes it’s not.”
“I wonder if it has anything to do with the young Miss Murray?”
He didn’t answer Gus but knew his expression likely gave it away. A rider approached outside on a scrappy-looking dark mount that looked like it could use a good meal and a brushing. The pair halted at the hitching post, and the rider swung off the horse’s back.
Zeb had half a mind to offer the man money for the horse, if only to rescue the beast. He pulled his mind back to the matter at hand.
“Well, where Miss Murray is concerned, all I can say is if you’re afraid of something, sometimes the best thing to do is charge in and do it anyway. I near about passed out when approaching my missus, before she became Mrs. Tolliver. There she was, refined and pretty as the sunrise. There I was, not having a care in the world with no one to claim my time but myself. Until I saw her.”
Zeb could relate to that sentiment. Much as Sven had told him before, sometimes a man didn’t need a wife, but he wanted one.
“There’s no crime in wanting what the Lord put in our hearts to desire. Companionship, a helpmeet, someone to weather the winters with, enjoy the springs and summers, to gather in the harvest with.” Gus’s eyes took on a sparkle. “I don’t regret it, not one bit.”
A
knock sounded at the door some hours after Zebulon had left. The noise made Belle jump and almost drop the scarf.
“Who is it?”
No answer.
Her pulse pounding in her throat, she tiptoed to the window and tried to see whoever had knocked at the door. A horse stood tied to the nearest fence post. She didn’t recognize the mount, a dark bay with a scraggly mane.
The shotgun. Belle reached for it where it hung on the rack over the coats. Good thing for her, she’d been practicing like Zeb had suggested. “Who’s there?”
“Belle Murray, open the door.” A male voice. Not Jake or Sven or Zebulon, or even Mr. Tolliver.
“Tell me who you are, first.”
“Abel Quinn.”
“I prefer not to have gentleman callers inside my home if I’m alone.” As soon as Belle had spoken the words, she realized her error in doing so. But she had a gun. And so far Ham’s brother hadn’t given her any cause for alarm other than arriving unexpectedly.
“Ma’am, I’m not here on a personal matter. But what I have to tell you, I’d prefer to be inside out of the cold.”
She unlocked the door and opened it.
Abel Quinn filled the doorway. A smell came from him of animal fur and stale alcohol. She couldn’t catch a whiff of anything fresh. He had a leather pouch slung over one shoulder and a rifle over the other.
“Come in.” She debated about heating water for coffee, and although the water in the kettle would likely make a lukewarm cup, she didn’t want to encourage him to stay any longer than necessary. However, all she knew about him, she’d heard from Ham. Maybe after all this time he’d changed. But then Abel hadn’t come to the funeral, she reminded herself.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He removed his hat, and she stepped back to allow him inside. He shut the door behind him, the hinges creaking and wood squeaking.
Belle stood in the center of the room, the table behind her, and kept her hands clasped together. “Please, accept my condolences about your brother.”
“You lost your sister, so, likewise.” Abel nodded. “I can’t imagine what my brother told you about me.”
“Only that, ah, you’d had a falling out sometime in the past. He didn’t speak of you much. I do know, though, he had hoped to reconcile with you.”
Abel guffawed. “I bet he did. Well, actions speak otherwise. Always thought he was better’n me. All I can say is look what I have, and look what he’s got.”
Belle couldn’t find the words to comment on the brothers’ relationship. Clearly, Abel still bore ill feelings toward Ham, even as his brother lay in the grave. “So, Mr. Quinn, you said this isn’t a personal call. I assume, then, it’s a business matter of some kind. Although, I can’t imagine what business you and I would have to deal with.”
“You’re quite right, this is a business matter.” He removed the wide pouch from his shoulder and strode past her to the table. He opened the flap and pulled out some papers. “I have here some papers that give me the rights to this claim.”
“What?” Belle wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “My sister’s name is on this claim, not merely your brother’s.” She knew enough to know if her sister’s name was on the claim papers, too, Belle had at least the rights to half the claim.
Until now Abel Quinn had been a figure in her imagination; the relative Ham never saw anymore. She’d figured the man cared nothing for the land and what it meant.
Abel shook his head. “Not in the papers Hamilton filed. The papers say the claim was filed by Hamilton Quinn, not Hamilton and Melanie Quinn. Got copies of ’em right here. Look for yourself.”
“There must be a mistake.” She reached for the papers he held. She scanned the first page.
“Go ahead, read them. No mistake. Ham always told me this would be his and his lady’s place. But it’s figuratively speaking, as they say. Her name was never listed on the paperwork.”
Belle shook her head. He’d spoken the truth. No mention of Melanie at all on the paperwork. “No. What does this mean?”
“It means this will all be my property come springtime.” He folded his arms across his chest and took a step closer. “Now, I suppose I could be charging you rent, all this time you’ve been living here since my brother’s untimely death.”
She tried to keep her knees still. She wished Jackson was modern enough for a telephone, or neighbors were closer. Or she could call on someone to get this man out of her house.
Except the house wasn’t hers.
“You … you couldn’t charge me rent. This place isn’t yours. Not yet. It’s not mine yet.” No, she wasn’t backing down easily. “Anyway, I should charge
you
a caretaker’s fee. I’ve cared for the cattle, taken care of the cow and my own horse, kept the house clean, chopped wood, and hired help to assist me. Shall I send
you
a bill for everything I’ve paid for, as well as my own services rendered?”
At that Abel reared back and let out a roaring laugh. “I like your spirit. And you’re a smart woman, too. I tell you what, you can stay here, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You marry me. Because I’m planning to move into my home on my claim. And right now, you’re in my home. It wouldn’t do for people to know we’re both living here.”
She sucked in a breath. “
Marry
you? I’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“Well, out you go, then.”
“Out?”
“I’m sure a lady of your station,” he said, eying her up and down, “wouldn’t want her reputation besmirched by living under the same roof as an unmarried man. Now, we get someone here straightaway, we can get hitched. You’ve got spunk, and you appear to keep a clean house. If you haven’t noticed, there’s slim pickings of women around here.”
“No.” She shook her head again. “No, I won’t marry you. Not now, or ever.”
“I realize I may have put you in a bad position, but I’m not heartless.” He grinned at her, his grizzly face swallowing up his pouchy dimples. “You have until Christmas Eve to vacate the premises.”
“But … that’s in only two days …”
“You’re smart enough. You’ll figure something out. And it’ll give me time to find someone to marry us. I hear the preacher might even make a quick stop right around Christmas Eve, so I imagine he’d marry us proper. If you change your mind.”
Her mind flailed around for a solution. “What if I buy the place from you?”
“You can’t buy what’s not mine yet.”
He took the papers from her and set them on the table. “Well, think about it. I’ll leave this copy with you. There are two.”
She had no more words as he took his leave and strode from the house, after giving her a wink.
A
t last Zeb had finished his sleigh, in time for Christmas. In fact, he had half a mind to take it to the Christmas Eve church meeting to show the Olsens and other friends. Sven’s input had been invaluable when Zeb was crafting the sled.
Now the runners were bolted securely to the frame, and Zebulon spent time rubbing oil into the wooden sleigh to seal the grain. The smell competed with the rest of the aromas in the snug barn, but the result from using the oil would make a sleigh last for generations. At least, he hoped so. A good sleigh meant good transportation in the winter, and this one looked much finer than the glorified box-looking wagon on flat runners.
One of the first trips he wanted to make in the sleigh was a dash through the valley, with Belle Murray at his side. He stood back, admiring the sleigh once again, and wiped his hands on a clean rag.
He’d overstepped a bit by kissing her the other day, and while the gesture had been brief, it had replayed in his mind over and over since.
He’d ended his book-learning days long ago, but a man could still learn some things after his formal education was over. He knew he was in love with Belle Murray, and he regretted the times he’d urged her to leave Jackson while she could.
Part of him regretted it, anyway. He cared for her, but he cared for her safety more. Although she’d shown spunk and determination in the time after her sister’s death, she wasn’t skilled in running a ranch.
His conversation with Gus had helped him see clearly. Despite his nerves and, yes, fear, he had so much to gain with Belle in his life. Despite everything that could go wrong, despite the unknown of life here in Jackson.
Getting this sleigh finished became top priority. When a man set out to woo a woman, he needed to take care that everything was perfect and proper. Belle deserved that much.
The jingle of a harness outside the barn drew him out to see Jake Smythe arriving by makeshift flatbed sleigh, with firewood stacked behind him.
“Good afternoon, Zeb.” Jake reined in his horse from his perch atop the wood.
“Afternoon, Jake. What brings you by the Covington Ranch?”
Jake frowned. “I wish it were better news.”
“What’s happened?”
“Abel Quinn showed up at Belle’s place, throwing his weight around. Turns out, Belle has no rights to the claim.”
“But she’s been there, even before Ham and Melanie died, and Melanie’s name was on the paperwork, too, wasn’t it?”
“Evidently not. Belle came by the house to talk to Mary and me, beside herself. I don’t see any resolution to this, unless there’s paperwork somewhere showing Belle could have at least half rights to the claim.”
“Nervy of him, showing up like that.”
“He’s putting her out, Zeb. Tomorrow.”
“Christmas Eve? Where she’s going?”
“She’s leaving Jackson. Gus Tolliver said she’s paying him to take her over the pass.”
“No. She can’t leave.”
“Well, she’s going to.” Jake paused. “I thought you ought to know.”
“Thank you. Thank you for telling me.” He turned the idea over in his mind. He ought to be glad Belle would be leaving, away from this setting she had no experience living in.
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“Do?”
“Yes, do about it. Nobody’s blind to the fact you’ve taken a shine to her, and she to you. Poor Rosemary cried for a day when she realized it.”
Ah, poor Rosemary. “I’m sorry about your daughter, Jake.”
“She’ll be all right. I just pray she finds another man like you, Zeb. But you, you need to see about Belle. I admit I had my doubts about her staying. At first.”
“I agree with you there. I told her a long time ago she’d be better off leaving.”
“But now?”
“Part of me still thinks she’d be better off.”
“The first winter is always the hardest, you know.”
“I know. But I survived. You did, too.” Zeb shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Well, you’d better know before tomorrow. Gus and Belle are pulling out at daylight, so she can get to the station in Idaho and get her a ticket east.”
Zebulon had been prepared to woo Belle Murray.
At a time like this, his decision had been transformed from wooing to something deeper.
Wooing Belle would have given them the opportunity to ease into what was blossoming between them. Yet to get Belle to stay would likely require something more drastic, and more permanent.